


Legacy of Cain

by Hannibal-Trash (Prometheus214782)



Series: Legacy of Cain [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Suicide, in the last chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:42:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5528231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prometheus214782/pseuds/Hannibal-Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one shots based loosely off of Leopold von Sacher-Masoch's Legacy of Cain themes. A secret santa gift for the lovely whatkindofcrazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Love"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whatkindofcrazy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatkindofcrazy/gifts).



> Un-Beta'd. All mistakes are mine.

_I care._

 

“Hannibal.” Will’s call comes late into the night, and Hannibal feels the bedspread besides him, long cold, the omega’s scent still lingering in the soft, silken material. “Please.” Wills voice is no more than a whisper in his ear, and it is hardly a moment before he climbs off of the soft mattress, an address is whispered through the receiver, then, silence.

            When he arrives, clad in a heavy woolen jacket to combat against the cold, at the address Will had murmured through the phone, Will is standing there, clad in the black trench coat he’s taken to wearing. He’s already more or less guessed what this was about, so he closes the distance between them with quick strides, and sees the crimson liquid dappling the other’s steady hands.

“Show me.” He says, and Will hums softly in response, breath misting in the air, and leads way in to the dark alley besides the night club from which, even at 2 o’clock in the morning, loud, techno music radiates. The small, pathetic sign on the door illuminates the ally a reddish glow. Will gestures at the figure slumped next to the dumpster, as if he was a homeless man sleeping, and makes a small sound of revolt.

There is a circle of purple bruises around the alpha’s neck, and Hannibal, without touching, see’s exactly how Will’s hands would have encircled them, squeezing mercilessly, finger tips digging to the skin. The man died, euphoric in a haze created by the lack of oxygen. Will too bends down with him, and traces a soft finger over the other’s cold cheeks. The blood on his hands comes from matching slices on the man’s wrists, mimicking the bruises Will holds on his own. Hannibal realizes. Will’s fingers leave a smudge of crimson against deathly white skin.

“Tell me.” Hannibal turns to whisper against the omega’s ears, feeling the other’s heat against his cheeks, scenting his sweet smell buried under the smell of the offending alpha, currently dead at their feet.

“He took his own pleasure without heed.” Comes the responding whispers, neither of them willing to break the silence of the moment. “Assaulted, violated. Forced and fostered unwanted desire against them.” A pause. “So I showed him what it meant for the victims.” His distaste is plain in the tone of his voice.

“You cannot stand this particular brand of rudeness.” Hannibal states, and rises to his feet, straightening out his coat in the process. Will stays on his heels for a moment longer, blue eyes boring into Hannibal’s own maroon ones, noting his tone.

“Do you not feel disgust for this pitiful excuse of a man?”

“He is more useful dead, than alive.” Now, Hannibal is the one to brush gentle fingers against Will’s skin. “You have made him into a thing of beauty.” Manicured fingers over bloodstained ones. Un-marred wrists cover bruised ones.

“Now…”

            They drag the body onto Hannibal’s car together, inconspicuous and quiet, and Hannibal folds the corpses wrists neatly over his own clothing, though the blood has long since stopped dripping.

“Thank you.” Will will whisper later, as sharp knives and skilled hands remove meat from bones. Hannibal will respond with nothing but a smile, and will not, not yet, lay a hand on Will.


	2. "Property"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW conent in

_You’re Mine._

 

“You belong to me.” Hannibal’s breath fans hot against his back, and Will suppresses a whine. His hands are pressed to the stainless steel kitchen top, scrabbling for purchase and finding none. His torso is smear with red, and Hannibal caresses the inside of his trembling thighs with latex covered fingers, and his other wandering hand, also covered in blue latex played with his reddened nipples.

He releases that whine when Hannibal leans in to suck a livid bruise onto his arched neck, mouthing at his pulse point. Soon, the other grows bored of teasing the soft flesh of his thighs, and moves to rub against his leaking hole. A growl, besides his ear, as two fingers are greedily suck into his body, on the cusp of heat.

“Please.” It’s more of a soft sigh than an actual, fully formed plea, a hand leaving the table to tangle fingers against Hannibal’s hair, ruffling it from it’s usual slicked back position. “More.”

He moans again when the deft, calloused fingers find his prostate, stabbing mercilessly at that spot. Another gush of slick, and he can hear Hannibal’s sharp intake of breath, then he clenches down sharply as Hannibal draws out his fingers. Whimpers as Hannibal flicks his tongue and tastes it, smirking.

“More.” Will keens again, arching back to demand a kiss with already kiss bruised lips. He groans when Hannibal plucks him from his position and his back, warmed by Hannibal’s own heat, comes into contact with the steel countertop. The other man gives him a moment to adjust, as he plants his hands back onto the tabletop, hitching his legs around Hannibal’s waist. Before Hannibal thrusts in.

He moans. Loud and un-bidden, glorious in his form. Hannibal grunts too, along with his thrusts, along with Will’s delicious cries. Fingers digging bruises into the smaller man’s waist, a sharp reminder of the events that have transpired. The next day, Will will press his own, thinner fingers into the blooming sports of color, and he will dig hard enough to feel the pain.

Will’s cock jerks in time with Hannibal’s thrusts, the head red and flared. He doesn’t need a hand around it to cum, not this time, not with his body so close to heat and sensitive, so Hannibal pays that part of him no mind.

“For me, Will. Cum for me.”

 

 

Afterwards, Hannibal cleans Will off with soft hands and whispering words, and together, they carve into their prey.


	3. "State"

_Mindset_

 

“He has done nothing to deserve such fineries.” Will spits, lips curled in a mocking expressing. “He is here, by nothing more than his alpha status.” A large swig of his drink, almost vengeful. Hannibal sits calmly, maroon eyes glinting in the dark, a steady hand draped across the back of the sofa they are sitting on, curling possessively just beside Will’s left shoulder.

“In this society, there is no avoiding such crudeness.” Hannibal’s breath is hot besides his ear, and Will nods, a small smile upon his lips. He leans in to brush his nose against the soft skin behind the other’s ear, smelling his sweetness, now untarnished by the scent of suppressants. It makes a warmth curl in Hannibal’s underbelly, but he ignores it for now, standing and extending a hand to Will.

“Shall we?”

 

 

“I slice into his flesh with ease. The knife in my hand is sharp. There is no mercy in this kill. He is left to bleed out, hung in the form of penance.” The pendulum has no reason to swing this time, as his hands remember the feel of his victim’s blood, and his memory captures each move with detail. They first true hunt together.

 

 

Afterwards, covered in blood and adrenaline running high, Will will press Hannibal back onto the cold tiles of the shower, nipping at his neck, and Hannibal will groan, soft, head thudding back against the wall.

“Beautiful.” He would whisper, reverent and proud, chin resting against Will’s curls as the blood drains off of them and onto the tiles, then into the drain along with the water.

“Beautiful”


	4. "War"

****

**_Dispute_ **

****

“No.” Will paces around the room, anxious. The wine in his cup sloshes around, and he takes a sip of the crimson liquid. “Not Alana. Not Margot. Not their child. Not **a** child” He hisses. Hannibal does not stand to follow him, sitting on the couch, the very epitome of calm, he says. “Promises are one of the rare things that should not be broken.”

Will almost glares at him for this, expression speaking of disbelief. “You have broken promises before, many.”

“Some promises can be shattered. Especially when circumstances have changed” Will only paces faster at this answer.

“Is this about your possessiveness, _my dear alpha?_ ” Will sneers, sarcastic.  “If that’s the case, then fine. I’m leaving.” This decision is made abruptly, already, regret is beginning to sink its tendrils into his heart, but he continues into the bed room, determined. Hannibal calls out behind him.

“Will, wait. Please.”

He doesn’t. There are emergency bags packed in the closet. He grabs the one closer to him and leaves the other.

“Goodbye, Hannibal. If you hurt her, I may not forgive you.”

The door slams behind him.

 

 

Three days later, Alana is the one who calls him.   
            “Go home, Will.”

Confusion set in, but she continues.

“Hannibal misses you, as he has been so helpfully elaborating on the phone. My wife and my child need peace.”

Her tone is kind, frustrated, but still kind. It reminds Will of the days before the fall. He remembers her caresses, soft on his rough skin, and with a mumbled promise, hangs up. Determined not to remember.

 

 

When he does return to their little seaside mansion, Hannibal opens the door for him without an expression or word.

“Don’t do that again.”

Will pecks him quick on his cheek.

“I promise.”

 


	5. "Work"

****

_Work of Art_

Will lays on the soft duvet of the bed, spread and spent. The sheets beside him are cold, Hannibal’s scent lingering. The man in question is situated on a chair, adjacent to the bed, leather bound journal in hand. Will can hear the scratching of a pencil tip against paper, but doesn’t move. He is being sketched.

He gives the other another moment or two of silent stillness, before stretching, almost cat-like, and rolling off the bed, padding behind Hannibal t look upon his work in the journal.

“You didn’t…” He paused. “Sketch me into another piece of…” He paused again, fingers fingering on the paper. “art.”

True, Hannibal has done that before, many times. From when their relationship had not extended past ‘unofficial patient-psychologist’.

This time, he lays plain on the paper, the bed sketched with rough strokes as his body is mapped accurately.

Hannibal smiles. “That’s because you're already a masterpiece.”

            


	6. "Death"

****

_Together. Forever._

Out of the two, Hannibal is the one to leave first. It happens on a Christmas eve, as both Will and Hannibal lay on the same bed, eyes closed. Will can hear Hannibal's labored breathing, and feels the other’s chest rise and fall under his arm, draped across his chest.

Old age has come to them, like it does everyone else. Will thinks, bitter. After the years of Hannibal’s youth, and seemingly un-fading strength, it was not blood bath that takes him in the end. Hannibal’s eyes open slightly, his sight blurred.

There is a bowl of porridge on the nightstand, long cold, and bland. He knows that Hannibal detests such meals, but neither of then have the stomach for the finest of foods anymore.

“Will.” The other man breathes, soft, eyes glazing, and Will, with a desperate motion, flits soft fingers over what skin he can lay his hands on, clutching at something about to slip away.

Hannibal’s eyes flit around the room, breathing growing increasingly ragged.

“Stay with me.” A hand comes around to clutch at Wills writs, and he nods, quick dips of his head.

“Don’t…” Will leans in and captures Hannibal’s lips, for the last time, feeling his breath against his cheeks, his heartbeat against his fingers, questing on the other’s chest.

“I love you….” He trails off, and Hannibal smiles, weak.  

“And I you.” A small chuckle, that nearly sends him into a coughing fit. “There are worst last words.”

“Love you. I love you.” A repeating mantra.

 

 

He buried Hannibal in their garden afterwards, laboring himself to dig and to place the body within. There will be no marble gravestone, no grand ceremony. Just the tireless work of one who’s lost their other half.

Will stands in the shower afterwards, letting the dirt and grime wash off of him, reminiscent of their first kill together. He remembers the blood draining, as the dirt is doing now. It brings a sad smile to his face.

 

 

            He slits is own wrists in a tub of warm water days later. Thoughts of Hannibal fill his mind, their first meeting, the dragon…all those little bits of a life he’s now ready to abandon.

“Goodbye.” He whispers. “Goodbye.”  



End file.
